My Father's Wives (9 page)

“Let me have this drink,” I said, “and then we’ll see what kind of moves you’ve got.”

WE DEPARTED THE NIGHTCLUB
just after eleven o’clock. As Bruce always told me, partying into the wee hours is for movie stars and musicians who don’t have responsibilities in the morning and want their pictures in the newspaper. “That’s why most of them disappear so quickly from the spotlight,” he would say. “How productive can anyone be if they’re in nightclubs at two in the morning?”

Three limousines stood outside: two were going to Bruce’s apartment, the third was for members of the group who didn’t warrant that invitation. That driver was instructed to take each guest wherever he or she wished to go, one at a time, in whatever order made the most geographic sense. All of them embraced Bruce and me upon their departure, hearty hugs and handshakes, kisses on both cheeks. Then Bruce stepped into the first limousine and I into the second. My blonde slid beside me, sought out my hand, and held it with our fingers interlocked. There were four of us in the car. The three women immediately started gabbing about how delightful the club had been, how sparkling the glassware, how attentive the service, how perfect the music.

“And of course,” my girl said, raising my hand, “
this
one here was the
best
dancer.”

“It
was
spectacular to watch.”

“I had no idea you had such
moves
.”

“Bruce is
soooo
much fun.”

“Oh, I just
adoooore
Bruce.”

I took a deep breath and looked out the window. We were traveling through Central Park. The lights in the trees cast a staggered illumination, providing the very particular calmness that only comes from
being in New York but feeling a million miles away. We all sat in silence, luxuriating in that moment of quietude that life so infrequently provides amid the madness.

There was a vibration in my chest, brief and gentle. I thought for a moment it was the excitement but just as quickly realized it was coming from my pocket. I went in discreetly with my free hand as though I were committing a crime, which I suppose I was. In this car there was no place for the intrusion of reality.

It was a missed call from Claire. I stared at the face of the phone and felt it vibrate again, this time in my hand.

I breathed in deeply, let it out, then tucked the phone back into my pocket. No one in the group had paid any attention to my brief interlude with the outside world; they were too consumed with being fabulous.

We came out of the park and drove down Fifth Avenue: awnings stretched above austere glass doorways, uniformed doormen chatting, a well-dressed couple laughing, a cabbie having a smoke, a lady in a red coat walking a dog so small it could have been a hamster. A city at night, radiant and diverse and alive. I looked down at my hand, the fingers still thoughtlessly interlocking with the blonde’s. Claire’s hand was so small, this hand so different. Life is much simpler when everything is the same.

THE APARTMENT, WHICH I
had seen but not in some time, was huge and luxurious: three bedrooms with walk-in closets, three baths with Jacuzzi tubs, designer furniture, granite countertops, giant LED televisions. When my blonde and I walked in there was soft music playing:
Al Green, Marvin Gaye. A pair of high heels had been strewn thoughtlessly on the carpet.

Bruce and his brunette were seated in the center of the sofa in the living room, both holding drinks, her bare toes digging into the plush carpeting. Behind them, around the kitchen island, were two other women and the white-haired man in his tuxedo, bowler still perched atop his head. They were mixing drinks and tapping rapid beats onto the counter.

Taptaptap. Taptaptap
.

My blonde touched my arm. “Drink, Johnny?” she asked.

I nodded and she went to the bar. The taptaptapping model raised her eyes. “Want a line, Shell?” My blonde—Shell?—responded with a quick, firm shake of the head. It wasn’t cool because I wasn’t into it.

That emboldened me. “I may change my mind,” I said, stepping toward them, “if I’m invited.” I didn’t have any intention of doing cocaine with these girls, but somehow I liked their having the idea that I might.

The taptaptapping brunette stopped tapping, looked over at me, smiled with exactly the sort of surprise I had desired. She was chewing gum, which is about the least appealing thing a woman can do, but nothing could detract from this woman’s appearance. She was the opposite of my blonde: dark in every way, straight black hair, olive complexion. “Of coooourse,” she said, resuming her tapping.

The model seated beside her was a mix of the first two, chestnut hair, athletic, like a tomboy someone had convinced to try the clothes and the makeup. Then she spoke. “This is heavy-duty shit.”

Looks can be deceiving. The voice was pure disenfranchised model: cocaine, eating disorder, mean girl.

“It’s been a long time,” I said, “like twenty years.”

“Yeah?”

“Len Bias changed my life,” I said.

Nothing.

The dark-haired girl stopped the tapping and laid her razor blade on the countertop. There was a tiny mountain of white powder on a black sheet of paper, with six lines carved thin and a tightly rolled hundred-dollar bill wrapped in clear tape. “All yours,” she said. The accent sounded French.

“Maybe in a little bit,” I said. “I’d like a drink first.”

The French brunette lifted her eyebrows a smidge, which could have meant “Suit yourself” or “I knew you didn’t have the guts.” I wasn’t sure which, and I didn’t care. The time in my life when impressing a girl like this would have been of paramount importance had ended the instant I realized I could have had any of the girls at this party. Disinterested models become a lot less alluring when they are interested.

My blonde poured me a drink. I took a swig and let it lay on my tongue.

“Did I get it right?” she asked.

“Perfect.”

From behind us came a rousing snort, followed by a series of sniffles, then another snort. I turned, drink at my lips. The French girl, her face flushed, was rubbing her nose with the heel of her hand. A faraway look was in her eyes, but within a moment she looked normal again; made me wonder how many lines into the night she was. She held the straw out for me, tucked between her thumb and forefinger like a tiny cigarette, but I walked right past her into the living room. The music was still going but now the sofa was empty, and the door to Bruce’s bedroom was closed.

A voice came from behind me, directly in my ear. “I haven’t taken a
bath
since I’ve been in New York.” Shell had followed me, practically in my stride. Now she was whispering loudly enough that I was pretty sure everyone could hear. “I’m going to try that Jacuzzi,” she said.

Drink in hand, she slipped by, brushing against my chest so that my tie slid all the way to my shoulder. She walked slowly across to a
bedroom and disappeared inside. The music was still playing: Dusty Springfield, “Son of a Preacher Man.” I took a sip of my drink, pulled my necktie back into place, turned to see the girls at the counter tidying up. The mound of powder had disappeared, the lines too, all tucked away into whatever it is models keep their cocaine in these days. The tomboy was applying lip gloss, the French girl was digging a fresh piece of gum from her bag. Both of them stepped back into their heels, gave me kisses on both cheeks.

I raised the glass again and tilted my head all the way back, let every last drop slide between my lips. I was not thinking of Claire, or of my beautiful children, tucked into their beds an hour away. I wasn’t thinking of anything at all. I simply put my empty glass down on the counter where the cocaine had been, and then, with great determination, walked through the open door toward the sound of the running water.

There was a trail of clothes leading to the bathroom. I bent to pick up a high-heeled shoe, turned it over—red sole—picked up the other and placed them both on a narrow table in the hall. Her dress was a few steps beyond, golden glitter, sparkling in the dim glow of a lamp. I picked that up, too, and laid it on the table beside the shoes. All that remained was a balled-up black thong, dropped carelessly at the spot where the carpet met the bathroom tile. I left that where it was.

I rounded the corner to find her in the tub, submerged to the neck. She wasn’t as long as I’d imagined but she was stunning nonetheless, lean and tanned and muscular.

“How’s the bath?” I asked.

“Better than I remembered. Why don’t you join me?”

I stayed where I was, ten feet away, tie loose about my neck, sleeves rolled to the elbows. “Is your name Shell?”

“Shelby. My mom named me after the Julia Roberts character in
Steel Magnolias
. She was carrying me when she saw that movie. It’s still her favorite to this day.”

“I like the name.”

“I like it too.”

I went to the tub and sat on the edge, felt the seat of my pants dampen from the hot water. Shelby leaned forward until her face was beside mine. Her breasts were perfectly tanned and dripping wet, just a hint of bubble bath on her shoulders and chest. She threw her head back and gave me the length of her neck, which I kissed gently and then, tentatively, reached with my fingers until they found the tip of her breast. The instant my hand cupped her flesh she attacked me with her lips, kissing me so hard it was hardly kissing at all. Claire
never
kisses with her tongue. Claire’s breasts are bigger, too, than these, which were perky and hard but hardly a handful.

Shelby rose to her knees and yanked hard on my collar, pulling me into the tub, fully dressed. I felt the heat and the rush and I couldn’t quite breathe; Shelby was tearing wildly at the buttons on my shirt. As she began kissing her way down my chest I closed my eyes. Suddenly, I couldn’t stop thinking of a different woman. Not my wife.

I met Melanie Koff my freshman year of college. She had ringlets, dark eyes, and a voluptuous figure with which I desperately wanted to become acquainted. Our first date was dinner, our second a sorority party. Our third date, I was sure, was going to be the night. I arranged for my roommate to sleep elsewhere, dabbed on cologne, even wore my lucky shoes. Doc Marten loafers. Still have them in my closet.

I picked Melanie up and we went to dinner, then I took her to a movie she desperately wanted to see, a weepy Southern drama with a cast of famous women:
Steel Magnolias
. I didn’t love it. Melanie, meanwhile, began to cry halfway through and did not stop until the following day. Any romantic notions I had were cast aside; she was inconsolable. As I recall she saw the movie three times that week and never went out with me again; she found my reaction to it—or lack thereof—unacceptable. Melanie loved that movie, just as Shelby’s mother did.

Then my mind spun forward, from Melanie to Claire. I pictured her sleeping in our bedroom. And just a few feet away, in the closet,
were my Doc Marten loafers. That was when I opened my eyes, and looked down at Shelby, who was undoing my belt, and I thought to myself:
I own shoes older than this woman
.

“I apologize,” I said, grabbing Shelby’s hands and pushing her away. “I can’t do this.”

I rose to my feet and stood above her, dripping, my feelings a toxic mixture of contempt and loathing and pity. Then I climbed from the tub and sloshed through the hallway into the third bedroom, where I locked the door behind me. I went to the bathroom, peeled off my wet clothes, and dropped them in a heap in the tub. Then I climbed into bed fully naked and pulled the covers over my head. I was more tired than I’d realized. The last thing I remember thinking, as I drifted off to sleep, was that I had passed up sex with two beautiful women that day, and now I was naked and exhausted and alone.

I HAD COFFEE AND
croissants tucked beneath my arm when Mother greeted me at her door for the second time in as many days. “Now I know you’re
really
fucked up,” she said, smiling warmly.

“Can’t I just be excited to spend time with my mother?”

She yanked the paper bag from me. “Give me those and tell me what’s going on, because as delightful as it is to see you these visits are making me anxious.”

“I love you too, Mother.”

“If you really love me you’ll start bringing oatmeal. Your marital strife is going to make me big as a house.” She locked all the locks and slid all the chains and set the alarm behind us, then I followed her into the kitchen. She had thrown a housecoat over her nightgown; her face still bore the red outline of a sleeping mask.

“Did I wake you?” I asked.

“I was up,” she said, and took her first sip of coffee. “But not very.”

I was struck by how old she looked. Youthful for her age, perhaps, but youthful for seventy isn’t as young as she used to be.

After I had told her about my night she just stared at me, chewing slowly, swallowing deliberately. She took a sip of her latte, savored it, never removing her eyes from my face. Finally, after licking her lips, she told me what she thought. “This is a complete mess. You’re behaving like a crazy person. And, by the way, you look like hell.”

I was wearing the workout gear I always keep handy, but I knew that wasn’t what she meant. She was staring at my face, not my clothes. “I know.”

She took another bite of the croissant. “Have you been sleeping?”

“I slept pretty soundly. But you’re right, I’m a mess.”

“So,” she said, “what are we going to do about all this?”

“I really don’t know.” I rattled my fingers on the tabletop. “What would Percy have done?”

Mother stared at me, two fingers over her lips. “You realize that is the third time you have mentioned your father this week?”

“I wasn’t counting,” I said defensively, though my heart wasn’t in it.

“You know whose name you have not mentioned as many times?” she asked.

I just nodded. There was no need for either of us to say it.